


where owls no longer cry

by sybilius



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Families of Choice, Flexing Immortality, Forgiveness, Found Family, Friendship, M/M, Moral discussions, POV Alternating, Pacifism, Past/Implied Alcoholism, Quipping, Reconciliation, Trauma, brief discussion of american military, farming, the lesbians get nice things goddamnit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: It would be natural if Quỳnh had bludgeoned her way out of her centuries old grave desiring nothing but an inferno of death and destruction.But then, what did the immortals consider so natural about their endless war to begin with?
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Andy | Andromache the Scythian & Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 59
Kudos: 172





	1. Quỳnh

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for coming by!
> 
> This is to be the (much shorter) sequel that the second Old Guard movie won't be, but that I kind of wish for the crew's sake and Andy's especially, it was.
> 
> The hoot of an owl is an omen of death in Vietnamese mythology. The owl is associated with Athena, goddess of war, in Greek mythology. 
> 
> This is a story focused on the entire Old Guard crew, but Andy and Quỳnh have a sort of special place in it in my mind. It will be a nice six chapter rotating perspective. Everyone will have a voice. 
> 
> I won't make any promises as to update schedule, but I'm going to try my best to update once a week. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I always really value comments <3

All of her movements are colored with water. 

In truth, there is no leaving that behind. 

Quỳnh moves through the desert with the grace of a crocodile-dragon. Her pale yellow tunic flares behind her, the hat shading her face from the relentless sun. The dunes whistle back and forth, nothing but lifeless sand tumbling towards her. 

But no place, as she knows well, is truly lifeless. A jerboa leaps and skitters from a dune, the hiss of a snake in its wake. She could kill and eat the both of them, if she needed to, if that was her fancy.

If she had her bow.

But what she seeks? That’s life buried deeper in the choking dust of the sand. That’s life made rotten, drilled down to the worst of humanity and cored out to something eternally hard, something that glitters sharp and sure and gorgeous. 

Perhaps, Quỳnh reasons, she could describe Andromache in such a way. 

The checkpoint rises up from between the dunes. A sheet metal and tarp laden thing, half buried in the sand by relentless storms. The blood-diamond traders probably have to dig it out once a month. Hence why no sane person would go looking without knowing they’d be here. Andromache’s guard should be there in half an hour, by Booker’s estimates.

So she waits. She has patience. She had patience for all it took to wear Booker down, _persuasion_ , yes that too. But in his loneliness, rage, and self-hatred, she suspects the main threat she held over him was simply being left again. 

_Tell me this isn’t going to set me back another hundred years_ , he begged when he began the search, all the information underneath his rapidly clicking fingertips. She had simply inclined her head, taking a sip from her glass of water.

She takes the canteen out now, whetting the sharpness of her tongue. Andromache will be here soon. In all her frailness. Quỳnh can hardly imagine a more opportune time for a reunion. 

A flash of movement catches her eye. They’re good, the four of them, almost seamless against the desert camouflage. Trained warriors. The young girl and the two men flank Andromache, keeping her between them as they go into battle. Quỳnh remembers, remembers that kind of synchronicity her and Andromache shared, and later with Lykon. The blessed safety and _purpose_ in it. Someone to walk with. 

Quỳnh moves, the warrior’s stalk mirroring them, matching their pace while hidden behind the sheet metal. It’s almost as if she can _sense_ them, after so many years of having only dreams to bind them. They move into the tiny alcove that shields the front door from storms, the young black girl leading, Andromache behind her. They tap the door. Gunfire. Misses them all -- sloppy, but the two men cower over Andromache. Protecting her vulnerable form.

That bodes so, very very well for them. 

When the gunfire ceases, in the split second before the girl raises her weapon to return fire, rain down so much death and slaughter, Quỳnh moves. The gun rips through the wind again, this time spattering blood on the sand.

Damnit, it’s louder, brighter than she suspected it would be -- 

\-- she blinks back into consciousness, feeling not one, but many metal pieces, unburrowing themselves like worms from her body. Arms are cradling her head -- how funny that they still smell the same, after all those centuries. 

“I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe, it, it’s her--”

“Andy, are you sure you should be --”

“It’s her. Quỳnh, can you hear me?”

“Are they alive?” Quỳnh blinks, starting awake, looking around her. Half-light making the blood almost black on the mismatch of carpets on the ground. Five bodies, in barely a moment. A massacre. Damnit. She’d underestimated how long it would take to come back from all that gunfire, how much it would hurt. 

Should have had Booker fill her full of bullets before she left, to see how it would heal. In spite of the fact that her deaths could very well be numbered.

Much like Andromache’s. 

She clears her throat, suddenly arrested by the concern pooled in Andromache’s eyes. They could be plucked out and they wouldn’t grow back. What the hell is she doing, putting herself in front of gunfire like this?

Quỳnh’s well-prepared speech chokes with emotion in her throat, “Live and die a warrior, is that what you want still? I would not go with you to that end-- no--” 

Suddenly, several things happen at once. Qunyh’s eye catches a movement in the corner, just enough for her to shift, pinning Andromache down as the bullet buries itself in her shoulder. This time, she’s fast enough for the return fire, throwing herself in front of this careless slaughter. The gunfire stops in time for her to throw her body over top of the assailant, prising the weapon from his hands. The man whimpers. He’s still been shot, though he’s not dead yet. 

“Quỳnh, what are you doing?” Andromache speaks softly, as if to a child.

“Protecting life,” she hisses back through bared teeth. The man was caught in the side of his stomach, bleeding heavily. The bullet grazed him, thank god. One of twelve living. A poor count. But she is up against formidable adversaries. 

Family. 

Andromache’s lovely brow furrows with confusion, “He saw us. Quỳnh, you don’t know what he’s done -- “

“And do you? Have you become wise in your executions, all those years I was drowning?” she slowly stands up as the man cowers, fixing each of them with a hard gaze in turn, “Tell me his name. List for me his crimes.”

The youngest woman opens her mouth, looking around with a gesture to the room, but no explanation comes out. How could there be? Working with that American war-hawk agency, cutting a deal for their own safety. A fine thing, if they’re just trying to survive in peace, if that’s all that’s offered to them. Quỳnh’s eyes travel meaningfully to the stockpiled weapons in the northern corner. She could ask them what end was meant for those weapons-- would they destroy them, walk away? Cutting off violence with more violence. At one time, that may have sounded admirable. 

But after a millenia, couldn’t they reach for better? 

“No? Not one of you know his _name_? Not even you, Nicolò?” she raises her eyebrow at the optimistic crusader, the friend who she considered her best hope for giving them purpose.

After all those years drowning, they still drowned themselves in blood. She probably would have too, had she been among them. 

“What is your name?” she lets the man beneath her up carefully. He stares at her, terrified. A bullet drops from the side of her skull. She asks again, this time in Bambara. She hopes her dialect isn't too medieval.

“Oumar,” he mumbles, holding his wound and wincing.

“And why are you here?” she keeps her voice quiet and soothing, her face as neutral as she can. The man’s lips twist, looking from her to the others. 

“They pay -- that -- it’s simple for me, they pay,” his face twists with agony, “Who-- what are you?”

She shakes her head, thinking of those she has waiting back home. Their reactions upon meeting her were similar as well, “A woman. Different from you. But still a woman. My name is Quỳnh.”

His face contorts, then he goes limp. Blood loss, no doubt. Still so much need for water. The barren home she’s begun to build swims in her mind, undercut with so many memories of drowning, choking and filling her lungs and somehow expelling it to breathe in again. Quỳnh blinks, coming back to herself. 

“One of you -- get me something to bandage him with,” she looks at them sharply. 

It’s the young woman who moves, Andromache still staring at her with naked shock and wonder. Quỳnh suddenly remembers her name, whispered and gasped in so many dreams. When she passes her the gauze and wrappings, Quỳnh allows herself a moment of connection. 

"You’re Nile, am I correct?”

“Uh -- yeah.” Nile replies, staring at her face a little longer than is necessary. Quỳnh wonders what she saw in all those dreams. The iron mask. The water, blackened with blood, her eyes, swollen with salt. And for Nile, it’s only been a year. Quỳnh shakes her head, binding the man’s stomach carefully. She would need to move quickly. 

When she speaks, the well-practiced words returning to her, it’s half to Nile alone. But the others are close enough that they can hear, “See, this is what comes of us -- life made so cheap in our hands. I had to die for hundreds of _thousands_ of lives just to see that. But there’s another way.”

“What are you talking about?” Andromache’s voice sounds almost strangled. 

“I’m talking about laying down our arms, Andromache. I’m talking about a place for us to live, where we truly _help_ people, and don’t cut them down simply for the crime of having seen us,” she articulates carefully. 

“Pretty sure that guy did have more crimes than that,” Nile remarks dryly.

“Certainly,” Quỳnh replies calmly, “But crimes enough to die for? Did you factor his lack, his needs into that calculation of the weight of his life?”

Nile frowns, looking unsure. Nicolò has his eyes fixed on the man’s body as well, then staring at her in disbelief. It’s been many years. She wonders if it was a mistake to call on him first. 

Quỳnh nods, taking their silence as victory. She touches one hand to her own cheek, made whole from the bullet in it a moment before, “Our gift doesn’t have to be one of battle. After all, its direct form is one of healing.”

“Yeah, we haven’t heard that line before,” Yusuf rumbles, moving instinctively towards Nicolò.

Quỳnh shakes her head, “I don’t mean trying to pass the gift on, Yusuf. I simply mean -- there are other ways of doing _good_. So many ways of living well. Are you sure this is the way that people need the most? All this death. So many people reach for evil because they need to live.”

“Living. With people who aren’t like us,” Andromache’s voice is all disbelief, “Quỳnh, I’ve been there, remember? It’s not worth it to be a God.”

“Once. What is one time, against millenia of trying? And I said nothing of gods,” Quỳnh raises an eyebrow. Perhaps that was flippant. She heard the story of Andromache the war-goddess from the mouth of the woman herself. It was, in Andromache’s own words, the least human and the most alone she’s ever felt. 

The hollowness in Andromache’s gaze reflects those same words, even a millenia later, “How could you possibly take on that risk?”

“Have you forgotten, Andromache? Living is risk. Whether you die or not,” Quỳnh looks to her new companion, remembering time is against her, “I have to go. For his sake.”

“When and how were you planning on starting this -- god, I barely know what you’re trying to say, where are you going?” Andromache’s anger is almost desperate. Quỳnh supposes, after so many years apart-- but then, what have they done with those years? What have they left her with? She hoists the man on her shoulder. 

“It’s already begun. I did not come here to hurt you, though I did come to put myself in your line of fire for the sake of those who would not come back from it,” she hardens herself, reaching inside her tunic for the small electronic device that Booker demonstrated would serve better than any map. She looks Andromache in the eye, then tosses it to Nile, who catches it instinctively. 

“Here are the coordinates. Come unarmed. As I have.” 

Andromache lets out a soft, sharp laugh, reaching for Quỳnh’s shoulder as she heads for the door, “As if that ever stopped you before.”

Quỳnh pulls her arm back, viper quick, “I won’t speak of _before_.”

And with the image of Andromache’s anguished face branded across her memory, carrying a wounded man -- she walks back into the barren landscape. It’s Andromache, of course, that calls out after a few fathoms between them. By then, that ingenious device of flight, the helicopter, is upon them.

It steadies Quỳnh’s faith, that not one of Andromache’s guard makes a move to stop her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene in particular is set in Mali, which is made clear in the next chapter. I put a lot of my efforts towards original fiction these days and I'm used to minimal research settings, so if anything seems really off to you as a reader, you have my open invitation to drop me a DM or an ask on tumblr <3 
> 
> Thoughts and comments here on Ao3 very much welcome <3 You can find me on sybilius.tumblr.com if you want to chat about The Old Guard :)


	2. Nicolò

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my heartfelt thanks to my Italian beta, mcicioni <3
> 
> A smidgen of unbeta'd Arabic in this chapter; apologies -- I've never had an Arabic beta. Still, if you love the fic but want better language and want to make friends, feel free to send me a tumblr DM! (sybilius.tumblr!). I don't feel comfortable asking after people's language skills unless we're quite close or in fandom together, but I'm always happy to make new friends and take feedback on that ^_^
> 
> Hedging aside, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It was a delight to write :)

On the inside of his black hoodie’s sleeves, Nicolò feels the smooth edges of the embroidered cross patch rub against his cooling flesh. They’re driving twelve miles from the northern desert of Mali back into the cities. Andromache is still at the helm of their truck, though she’s been more than a little tight-lipped and tense since Quỳnh left them in that shack of corpses. 

Nicolò knows how she feels. The patch is one he added just a year ago, after they began taking Copley’s work. He’d written the inception rites himself. New vows, so young. Not even a year since, much less a lifetime. And yet, he’s already doubting them. Doubting their newness, even -- Quỳnh spoke well, their  _ modus operandi _ has shifted very little in a millenium. 

"So. You still want to go to that hole in the wall place for baklava…" Joe starts, and Nicolò twitches out of his reverie. 

"Mm-mm," Andy replies. Nicolò watches her hands, gripped white on the wheel. Nile, beside her in the front seat of their desert truck, quirks her lips in a doubtful frown to Joe. No comforting words come to Nicolò’s mind. They’ll have to ride this one out in their own silence, he suspects, at least until they get to their safe house north of Tessalit.

“For what it’s worth. I think what we were doing was still good,” Nile ventures carefully, “I mean, yeah, might have been better if we could keep them alive. But we’re working on that. And we did what we wanted to, cut off that back door so that Mali can keep doing better things with the diamonds. Stay on the Kimberly Process.”

Nile casts a look to Andy, and Nicolò wishes he had something to add to that. She said it well, of course. Her voice has been a strong part of what Nicolò was thinking of as their new age. It’s been a brighter point than Booker’s, if nothing else. 

“We can hope,” Andy murmurs after a long silence. 

“Of course we can,” Joe leans forward, “We saw that board-- everything you did, Andy. With us.”

“Right,” Andy’s voice is clipped. 

“There’s time enough to try what we can, you know,” Nicolò tries, reaching for something comforting. It’s then he realizes that might sound-- careless to Andy, given she hardly knows how much time she has left. He leaves it there. No one speaks. 

The rest of the drive passes in silence, as the miles fly by along with the occasional vicious bump of driving along the desert without a road. Andy drives hard -- no harder than usual, but any more would probably break the truck. Nicolò frowns, eyes fixed on the gradient of the sand, up to the endless blue of the sky. They tried their best, to bring Andromache back to them. Booker might have done better. 

If anyone had said that Quỳnh would turn up in their lives yesterday, tomorrow, any day but now, he would have thought it to be cause for celebration. Or horror. Both, or any. What little dreams of Quỳnh that came to Nicolò felt like something plucked from the poetry of  _ Divina Commedia _ . He remembers the bubbles of voiceless screams most of all, the way he’d wake up in Joe’s arms shaking. 

He remembers once asking Andromache, in younger days, if they could starve to death. She replied they could not. And not to try it. Quỳnh laughed then, clutching Andromache's arm like it kept her afloat. She knew even then. 

He remembers when Nile still had that dream, long after it had slipped from all of their minds. Except perhaps Andy. It was difficult to know if she stopped, given that most nights she slept thin, or with a bottle of vodka beside the bed. 

Her mortality meant she stopped that practice, of course. He wondered often, and now just the same, if that cut her off from dreaming of Quỳnh. 

None of them had any dreams of her wandering out of that watery grave. Not one. 

The green surrounding the river starts to rise up in the distance. Andy chose the spot well, with a few rock formations that shroud their mud and brick shelter. It’s not much, especially compared to the last home Nicolò shared with Joe in Marrakesh -- but they’ve had much worse, as part of their centuries-long crusades. The air smells sweeter now that the desert is behind them, the wide palms inviting in their shade. 

“What are we going to tell Copley?” Nile asks quietly, once the engine winds down. 

“What’s to tell? We got the job done,” Andy says, short and clipped, “The rest is family business. Do you still have what she gave you?”

“Yeah, um,” Nile rummages in her jacket pocket. Andy holds out her hand. Nile hesitates, “What are you going to do with it?”

Andy presses her lips together, but does relent after a moment, “You’re right. You should hold on to it for now.”

Joe steals a worried glance to Nicolò. None of them have left the truck yet, as if Quỳnh's ghost may yet reappear full fleshed in their meager shelter. The peculiar ornament on the dashboard, a paper conifer, ceases swinging. 

“We should have taken her with us,” Andy murmurs, apropos of nothing.

“She’s the one who left,” Nile points out.

“I should have -- said something, to make her stay.  _ Goddamnit _ .”

Andy finally wrenches open the truck door, only to leave in the opposite direction from their safe house. Nile swears under her breath, fumbling with the other side door. 

"Just leave her be," Joe says quietly. Nile sighs, but seems to take that as the right idea. The three of them get out of the truck, unloading the weapons save for what they carried personally. Nile does a quick sweep around their modest straw-roofed home. They'll take a helicopter out to Gao in a few hours time. Nicolò smiles affectionately when Nile waves the all clear. How quickly she's become a fixture in their family. 

His smile fades some when he wonders, who was Quỳnh in their family anymore? And more importantly, did she still think of them as such, after all those years they gave up the search? 

Joe nudges him in the back and the three of them duck into the cool shade of the hut. On the floor are a few rugs that Andy insisted Copley pack, along with sleeping mats to keep them off the ground the night before. There's a laptop and a few pieces of equipment to extend communication in the corner. What used to be Booker's domain, now was mostly Nile's. An insulated bag in the corner contains mostly military grade rations, and a few oranges, which Joe takes out and begins to peel. Nicolò and Nile both sit patiently on their mats, Nile disarming the machine gun. 

“That one is going to be في جيوب عميقة for -- centuries. Maledizione," Joe discards the rind, and splits the orange into three pieces, passing the largest piece to Nile.

“في جيوب عميقة?” Nile repeats curiously, taking the orange slices that Joe offers.

"Mmm, he came up with that one," Nicolò offers, "It's when we think of the best possible thing to say years after something happens."

"Sometimes it's worth mourning...I still have some choice words for Eyad Ibn Nadir on what he considers copper…" Joe gestures, clearly trying to lighten the mood. Nicolò barks out a laugh, and Nile tilts her head with a small smile. 

"Yes, but you did get me that jade pendant in replacement-- loss turning to good fortune," Nicolò hums to himself. Hopefully their Naples apartment is how they left it. Though dio solo sa when they will return to it next. 

"True. True."

The three of them chew on the orange, which tastes sweet and fresh, if a bit warm. It isn't quite the refreshment it would have been, if their mission had gone differently. Joe reaches for a second orange, peeling it easily. If Quỳnh had been there with them, would she have shared one with Andy? 

Nile takes the third of the second orange, nibbling at it contemplatively, "Sounds like a way to be dwelling on the past. Thinking about comebacks for moments that already happened?" 

"Comebacks?" Nicolò is always delighted to hear a new word. 

Nile pauses, then grins, "Kind of the same thing. When you want to say the smartest or funniest thing in conversation."

"It's not always about those things-- but yes, I suppose I could want for more cleverness in facing what Quynh said. More wisdom," Nicolò reflects, and Joe nods in agreement. 

"It's not always about the past, too. Sometimes, moments come again," Joe quirks a small smile, meeting Nicolò's eyes, "you remember when we were in the van, being shipped to Merrick."

"No-- you composed that?  Pazzesco. Che mostro che sei ." 

"All military are the same. Just like in Canberra, in Tripoli, in Sacramento. Thought something new might shake them up," Joe winks, that smile Nicolò loves wide around his beard.

"Feel free to use it again," Nicolò grins, "Cannot argue with results."

"I pray I won't have to," Joe replies, suddenly somber. Nicolò puts one hand on Joe’s knee, shaking his head in answer. 

Nile lets out a fond scoff, "Yeah, I'm not going to ask. But -- what's going on right now-- do you think Andy will want to go to Quỳnh? Is that...dangerous?"

"It's impossible to say,” Nicolò admits, “She’s...cavalier about our identities. Taking in that man, Oumar, without careful vetting. It’s not what Andy would have done.”

“Guess so. But. We are working with Copley now. We have to trust him," Nile points out. 

“He’s been vetted,” Nicolò replies.

“After he sold us out," Nile shrugs.

“We’ve had worse bedfellows,” Joe says easily.   


“Apparently, so has Quỳnh,” Nile stands up, casting her eyes towards the door. She tugs the electronic device Quỳnh passed her out of her pocket, setting it among their makeshift communication desk, “I’m going to go find Andy. Look after that.”

“Be gentle with her,” Joe calls.

“Andy doesn’t like gentle,” Nile replies, already out the door.

“You know, she does have a point there,” Nicolò remarks, crossing the room to take up a spot on Joe’s rug. His lover sighs, slipping an arm around his hips.    
  


“So?” Joe says expectantly after a few minutes. 

“You can always tell when I’m thinking,” Nicolò pulls off his sweater to relax in just a t-shirt, preferring to bare his skin when he feels safe to. When it feels like their task is complete.

“Sometimes I can tell what you’re thinking -- this time all I know is it’s about what Quỳnh said.”

“Mhm. You think they’ll be long?” Nicolò casts his eyes to the door, not wanting to set Andy off with frank conversation if he can avoid it. 

“Yes.”

Nicolò slumps over sideways, his head in Joe’s lap, “That’s good. I want to think with you.”

“Parla, amore mio.”

“Quỳnh said a lot. A lot of it might be right. You said, when Nile asked if we were good or bad, ‘depends on the century’. And it’s true. We have to do a lot of guesswork. When we take work, when we take up arms, when we kill. I know we’ve seen from Copley’s framing that can do some good. But it’s not guaranteed.”

“We know that most things in life aren’t, Nicky,” Joe caresses his face carefully.

  
“Of course. But is that a reason not to try something different?”

“See what Andy says, I guess,” Joe rests his hand in Nicolò’s hair, “Fact that she said it to you got to you, didn’t it?"

“Beh, s ì , lo sai. And we know it’s getting to Andy too. Not in the same way," Nicolò muses, wondering if she'll accept a hug, a few minutes peace, when she returns. 

“She’ll mind herself.”

“She only has so much time left for change,” there it is again, inexorably-- the worry that was so long a distant, almost untouchable horizon.

“That’s true.” 

"We don't know how long we have either," he adds, caressing Joe's face with all the tenderness his compango so richly deserves. Joe's lovely eyes soften. Beautiful as the first day he laid hands on him to heal, rather than to harm. 

"Well, let me think about it a bit, Nicky. But you know I'll go where you go."

"You know I won't go anywhere you can't follow. That's never changing," he steals a kiss, long and gentle. 

Not until death parts them, but God and Allah together, if they lost death together, they should find it together too. At least, that's what Nicky prays for. 

After a few luxurious minutes more of being touched by Yusuf's orange scented hands, Nicky sits up and lurches for the laptop. He opens it up, still leaning half on Joe’s shoulder. 

"Careful with that," Joe cautions, though Nicky can feel his patient smile against his cheek.

"I just -- want to know where, I think. This might take some time," Nicky types with two fingers, remembering the pattern of letters and numbers Nile rhymed off easily, where they are on the keyboard less so. 

"You know I won't be much help."

"Nile should be back soon. Andy too," Nicolò hums as the screen flashes to a vibrant purple, small icons appearing on the side of the screen. He picks up the device Nile left, "Do you remember where you plug something like this in?"

"Here, I think? Is it like this, or the other way?"

"Madre de dio."

"You guys going to cut us off from our ride?" Nile pops her head through the curtain. Andy looms behind her, still grim faced.

"If we're not careful. We were just--" Nicolò stops as Joe motions with the small device. Nile nods seriously, glancing to Andy. 

"Well. Let's see it then," Andy says, still as a glass lake. Nile's eagerness is obvious as she sits between them, picking the laptop out of Nicolò's lap. He squeezes her shoulder affectionately, while she flips the device once and sets it into the machine like a key in a lock. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, eventually bringing up a blue and earthen map, zooming in with a sniper's precision to a northern green island. 

"Iceland," she looks at Andy doubtfully.

"Iceland? Huh. She. I suppose she always liked it in Reykjavik," Andy replies distantly. Joe looks at him quizzically. That's one story neither of them know. 

"So what's next, Boss?" Joe asks.

Andy hesitates, leaning between the leader they know and the lost woman she's been for so long, "I -- I want to see-- mm." 

"Booker," Joe finishes for her, and that surprises even Nicolò. Andy smiles the tiniest, bitterest smile. 

"How did you know?"

"You're figuring she couldn't have found us or put this together without him," Joe nods seriously.

"It's his style," Andy says absently, "is there a contact number with those coordinates? French area code?"

"Uhuh," Nile replies.

"It's him," she paces to the other side of the hut. 

"You do miss him. Don't think we haven't noticed," Nicolò adds, with a measure of regret. They were hoping, a few years in the rhythm of their new work, Andy would liven up in the evenings, Booker's absence filled with the new vitality than Nile brought to their family. But one cannot simply be replaced. 

"I do. But -- we decided as a family. One hundred years," Andy says steadily, leaning against the mud wall. 

Joe sighs, "We can't take those years from you-- not while they might be few. 

"You don't know that."

"Life's short," Nile adds, and the three of them look at her incredulously, "Sorry, um. It's what my mom used to say."

That breaks the tension for a moment, Andy dropping her serious expression to laugh, Joe joining her. It's a reckless bitterness, but it makes Nicolò smile to see it again. 

"Booker sent Quỳnh to us. He must have thought on some level that wasn't dangerous," Andy rummages through the food stores, pulling out a protein bar that she takes a vicious bite of. Nicolò reckons that to be a very good sign. 

Joe scoffs and manages to cover it as a cough. Andy raises her eyebrows. "Just he's always been reckless. But you are right. She wasn't dangerous. For now."

"I want to hear it from him, why he trusted her."

"He probably didn't have much of a choice," Nile mutters, shutting the laptop. Nicolò winces. They'd pushed for leaving him in exile-- Joe especially, but seeing the memory of his  _ stella _ , tied up at Merrick's mercy, he doesn't regret it. A year is not nearly long enough for that betrayal. 

"No. You go, with Nile. We'll hear out what he has to say from you, and decide if that changes anything."

"Sounds fair to me," Andy says softly, "Do you think--"

"What?"

"Is it wrong, that I'm afraid to see her again?" Andy raises her head with such tiredness. If she wasn't across the room Nicky would offer her a hug right then. He smiles at her painfully. 

"It is what it is, Boss. Maybe tell us what Booker says to that, too," Joe says easily, then the four of them tense as the rhythmic wind of the helicopter hits their ears. Nicolò helps Joe up. 

"That'll be our ride. You with us?" 

"Always," Andy replies, and Nile is quick to nod her agreement. 

The helicopter's searchlight casts long shadows along the palms in the setting sun. Nicky takes Joe's hand. This may be change at a pace that is strange to them -- but Nicolò reminds himself, all others without their gifts must weather such changes quite often. Joe is still here. This is what remains constant.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tradition of inception rites/prayers dates back to the crusades -- there was one for the "taking of the cross" that was never documented but involved attaching a cross to clothing or armor. You can read more about it here: [Liturgy of the Crusades](https://erenow.net/postclassical/crusades/569.php). It's my headcanon that both Joe and Nicky have some interesting traditions and beliefs that they still hang on to or adapt. 
> 
> The Kimberly Process is a certification for non conflict diamonds. Mali as a country participates in the Kimberly Process. 
> 
> ي جيوب عميقة - Literally, in deep pockets. A riff off the Arabic idiom “the shroud has no pockets” idiomatically referring to “you can’t take it with you when you die”. My headcanon is that Joe himself came up with this in-joke for them. 
> 
> Joe's line about Eyad Ibn Nadir is a sideways reference to the first ever complaint scroll to Ea Nasir. This predates Joe and Nicky. My thanks to old-man-dio on tumblr who helped me come up with that little bit :) 
> 
> Pazzesco. Che mostro che sei. - Ridiculous, you're a monster -- but with teasing affection. 
> 
> Beh, sì, lo sai - 'Well, yes, you know it.'
> 
> Anyways my favourite headcanon snuck in to this chapter is that Nicky types with two fingers ^_^ Tell me about yours, I love hearing people's thoughts on the fic! Thanks for reading!


	3. Sébastien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out -- gentle! I suppose because it's not Booker's story, really, it's about the family, and about Andy and Quynh. Anyways, I hope you enjoy reading this melancholy fluff as much as I enjoy writing it ^_^

Sébastien thought of himself as Booker for years. 

Almost one hundred and fifty, and back and forth with  _ Le Livre _ before that. The talented forger who could cook any book that was needed for a deal. The only other name that meant anything to him was  _ Papa _ . Few centuries behind that one. Give or take. 

For no reason he understood then, when Quỳnh appeared in his apartment, calling him by that name, he corrected her. 

He was Booker to them, for them. And without them, he -- was no one. 

So when his phone rings, six months after he took up the two hundred year old name, he’s been thinking about who  _ Booker _ was a lot. Reclining on his bed as the sun dips low in the sky after the day’s work. Thinking about all the shit filling up his bowl during his six months alone. That he poured, no less. And all the years before that. 

Trying to avoid drowning those thoughts out. His phone rings again. The number is hidden, and he swipes it to pick up, still lost in his reverie. 

“Booker?” it’s Andy’s voice on the other line. He nearly drops his phone. 

“Yeah, um. Yeah, it’s me, Andy,” he doesn’t know whether to tell her to call him Sébastien or not. He should have expected this -- his contact number, her call. But he’s still having a hard time believing it’s happening now. 

“Knew it was going to be you,” she says, so gentle and sure. Same as a year gone. 

“She said she found you, yeah. Quỳnh, I mean. Um," he leans back against the slate grey of the wall, letting his eyes wander to the lush yet austere landscape out the window. So much green and grey here. It’s not where he would have thought to settle -- but there’s something in it for sure. Keeps them isolated. 

Andy clears her throat against the silence on the other line, “Yeah. Booker, um -- how are you?”

He scoffs, his lips twisting, “You didn’t call to ask that.”   


“You know, I might have. I don’t know,” Andy pauses, “I want to see you.”

“You have the coordinates for where to find me. I'm -- with her, now, I guess?” that sounds...more certain than he thought it would. But it’s true. He’s done little except labor under Quỳnh’s direction, tech and sweat, whatever she needs. 

"With... her?" Andy's voice is suddenly more strained. He coughs, realizing a moment later what it sounds like. 

"Physically, I mean. I mean, not romantically, not physically either, we just-- look, she's got a place, okay, it's kind of like a safe house. I help her keep it up," Sébastien tries to explain. Kind of a shit job of it, but it’s more or less right. 

Andy pauses, and then starts to laugh, “I’m sorry, Book that was -- ridiculous of me.” 

"Shit, yeah, um-- I know you go both ways, but that woman definitely does not. ‘Sides, she's got eyes on other things right now,” he catches himself smiling, but wistfully. It’s only been a year. It feels like it could have been decades. 

“Right.”

The silence turns a bit tense. If he doesn’t watch it, the whole thing will sour like vinegar. He sucks in through his teeth -- in some sense, Quỳnh is counting on him. She wants Andy here. Hell, he does too. If he has to leave to make that possible -- well. When it comes down to it, he’s got more years to waste than she does. 

He owes her that. 

"I know she's expecting you to come-- I mean, I don't have to--"

“Not there,” Andy cuts in sharply, “I -- I need to meet you somewhere I know is safe."

Sébastien blinks sharply, “Just me? But--”

“I got the okay from Joe and Nicky. Look, Book, I meant what I said. I want to see you. And -- I trust that I know you more than I trust that I know Quỳnh right now.”

He exhales a moment. Those words hold weight. Centuries of it. He doesn’t deserve that kind of trust, hell, Quỳnh doesn’t deserve that kind of suspicion. But if Andy is asking...

“Rue Dauphine? On a weekday?” 

New Orleans had always been a haunt of theirs, since about 1832. They used to go more frequently after the second world war -- books and booze and French. She’d take him there to cheer him up. More often than not they’d leave a little better than when they got there. 

“Shit, you’re going to make me fly across that ocean, huh,” there’s a smile in Andy’s voice. Maybe she’s having the same memories.

“I gotta fly either way. I might as well get  _ beignets _ .”

“Monday, then. Eleven.”

“Alright, alright,” he smiles. That’s tomorrow. Andy always was one for action. 

“Are you good, Book? You sound -- better,” she asks. She sounds the same. Maybe a little shaky. He was the same way, the first day with Quỳnh. Few days after. God, what -- was he going to tell her? 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell you more later, Andy but -- it’s been good for me,” he replies. 

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that. I’ll see you soon.”

Andy hangs up. Booker wonders if she’s smashing the phone on the other line, as she used to.  _ Merde _ , there he goes. Thinking of himself as  _ Booker _ again. Old habits. Was that a bad one? He looks around his room, the cleanness of it sharp and grounding. So different from the world he left in Paris, the stains on the walls and fingerprints on all the glasses. 

He stands up, opening up the closet in the corner to pack a bag. It’s going to be a hell of a thing to try and explain. 

For the first time in a while, far longer than a year, Sébastien finds himself looking forward to something. 

* * *

He does grab a taxi to  _ Cafe du Monde _ as soon as he touches down at Louis Armstrong, half-expecting to see Andy in sunglasses ducking the crowds towards him. No dice. He takes a seat, orders a cafe au lait and two beignets. It’s a sunny, soupy day. The town doesn’t look as old as it has. Tourists. That and the hurricane that forced it to put up a new face. He grimaces. A year he was definitely drunk more days than he was sober. 

He checks his watch. He hasn’t left himself much time to make their rendezvous. Bourbon street still reeks of gin, absinthe, stomach acid, and that’ll creep up on him if he gets too close. He’s got people to get back to. 

Maybe people to take with him. 

They’ve met at Dauphine Street Books once before -- though it was years ago, hundreds of thousands of tourists since. The bright painted exterior of the French quarter buildings gives way to a narrow space, every inch covered in books. Some of them, the dime novels of today, traded secondhand or donated -- a few of them rarities that at one point he used to look for. 

He kept up an interest in that for half a century, and then feigned it for another century so that he wouldn’t have to tell the others he wanted nothing, nothing in or from this world. He mentioned that to Andy once, drunk. She got him more expensive books after that. 

By god, did they both  _ try _ , then. Until they didn’t.

He exhales, letting his eyes wander over a mismash of pulp science fiction novels, barely sorted in any order. His eyes fall on the title  _ Open Space _ , which almost makes him hesitate. He hasn’t bought a book in years -- and he’s always stayed away from science fiction on principle. A principle he barely believes in anymore. He looks up, the hair on his neck standing up, a second before Andy comes into his sights. 

“Booker,” she’s wearing those heavy sunglasses. He’s forgotten his -- forgotten that they used to do that damn near everywhere they went. Huh. Six months to undo a habit of the better part of a century.

“It’s -- Sébastien now,” he says, because it sounds right to.

“Oh. Is that what Quỳnh--”

“No, actually she called me Booker when she met me. Must have heard it in one of the dreams,” he clicks his tongue and makes a gesture to his head. 

“Ah. I ah -- didn’t bring you a book. Not this time.”

“S’good,” he picks the one off the shelf on a whim, “I’ve got my eye on this one.”

He pays for it and lets her stew, waiting for her to speak first. She mostly watches. He gestures for the door, knowing this is a little empty to have a conversation. They used to strategize along the waterfront, where the wind and the bustle of tourists would drown out the conversation. 

“You good?” he asks when they leave. She nods distantly. She’s not good. He knows that, and he knows to wait it out. 

It’s him that orders for them, for once -- one muffuletta, one croque monsieur, the kind of sandwiches to fight off what short but painful as shit hangovers they do get. He wonders if she drinks anymore. He hopes not as much. He hopes not at all, if he’s being honest. Real stupid thoughts from someone who thought he’d help her die, he figures. 

When they sit down on a bench by the Mississippi river, she sets the sandwich on her lap, apparently ready to say what she came for. 

“So -- I wanted to see you, first of all because -- I don’t understand. At all. How did she -- escape? How did she survive? Why doesn’t she -- “ Andy stops the question, dropping her hand helplessly, “I just expected her to come back and kill me. I didn’t expect --  _ this _ . What is it she’s doing?”

“You don’t want to hear it from her?” he asks before taking a bite of the rich mess of cheese and ham. He decided on the plane, to try his best not to speak for Quỳnh. 

“She’s like a stranger to me. No, worse than that -- a stranger who looks like someone I used to --” Andy breaks off, her green eyes frustrated and miserable, “We used to know each other better than anyone in the world. I know  _ you.  _ And I knew she found us because of you. Copley is too good for it to be anyone else.”

A wave of the old bitterness and pain rocks through Sébastien. He remembers a month in, sober for more than a few hours and deciding to find out what they had done with Copley. Of course they had to install a replacement. One that they could forgive. Unlike him. He’d tried to rationalize that one, of course -- Copley was always a middleman. Sébastien will take the guilt where it’s due-- it was his gamble that put  _ all  _ of them on the rack, at the end of the day. 

He wonders, as he attempts to swallow back the lump in his throat, if Andy or Nile ever asked Copley to explain. Merrick unraveled from their intentions so fast. But maybe they were both eager to believe in fairy tales, something that can  _ sell _ rather than the relentless grind of keeping oneself alive, safe, something resembling sober about it. 

"What's she  _ like _ Booker?” Andy asks, almost a desperate whisper. Sébastien blinks, his mind still half in Seljalandfoss. 

"Didn't you see her?" he asks, to buy himself time, “I thought she’d explain.”

"She had a speech. I -- it's hard to describe. I -- guess what I’m asking is if there’s anything of the woman I knew in her. I know that’s stupid. You didn’t know her then,” Andy takes a nibble of her sandwich, studying the churning brown of the Mississippi. 

Booker presses his lips together, thinking carefully, "She's twitchy. I don't know. I think if you're looking for the same woman you lost-- that woman might have drowned. Like you said, I didn't know her before. But it changed her. Anyone can see that. I think she might sleep even less than me."

Andy just nods seriously, taking in the words like they’re a lifeline. He sucks in the sticky air, sweet with wildflowers, and keeps going. Hoping he won’t misspeak, make it so that Quỳnh misses her chance to try again with them. 

“What she wants -- that’s beautifully simple, Andy. She just wants to settle down and -- take care of people. That’s it. That’s the  _ why _ she’s convinced we were meant for all along.”

Andy blinks. Her eyes might be wet, “Jesus, Book. Listen to you. Mm. Sébastien, sorry.”

“S’fine,” he says quietly, then thinks to ask, “Is that bad?"

“No, no -- I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you -- invested in something. Other than dying,” Andy shakes her head, “I hoped-- so did Joe, but. It looks good on you.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll keep it but -- it’s been six months and I want to do right by her. I never did with you, I know it. And with Joe and Nicky -- god, if I start on apologies I won’t stop. I’d say that to them -- I’ll save it. One down, ninety-nine to go. At least I got to see you again.”

Andy opens her mouth, then closes it, a small, bitter smile on her lips,“You know I forgave you -- soon as Nile let us out of that lab. I wished I hadn’t, for Joe and Nicky’s sake. Maybe even for Nile’s.”

“I know. You shouldn’t have,” he replies, the taste of it heavy on his lips, “Maybe you had to.”

She nods, looking so fragile she might break apart. Joe or Nicky would be better at this. Nicky, he’d take her into one of those gentle, warm hugs that time sort of slowed down in. Joe -- hell, Joe always knew how to make anyone smile when he tried. That included Booker. But him -- he used to just get her more whiskey, offer a toast to the pile of shit they were in. 

He settles her a hand on her shoulder, heavy and a little clumsy. She laughs, an almost nervous scoff -- but doesn’t move away. 

“I’m afraid of seeing her again,” Andy says softly, “I don’t know where to begin with...where we used to be, together.”

"Like Joe and Nicky, you mean?"

"Yes-- and no. We were never like them, I -- I mean, I loved her...I love her. But we were never…"

"Perfect?"

Andy laughs, that old bitter sound, and it warms him in the way that the liquor used to. Or maybe it was always her, always them. Of course it was. He kept missing it. 

Andy shakes her head, “You ask them about their first decade, it wasn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. They outgrew it -- well, Nicky had to do most of the growing. We stopped talking about it a half a century before you came up. Let the past be the past.”

“Yeah,” he crumples up the foil of the sandwich, a thought coming to mind, “Hate to say it, but that might end up being what you have to do with Quỳnh. Or. I dunno. Look for something new.”

“Something new. I’ll see about it. There is -- everything else she wanted. Putting down our arms for good. I don’t know if --” she trails off again. Sébastien shakes his head. He’s never seen Andy so uncertain. But maybe there were centuries of that before his time, too. She must have been so many different women, so many different lives. 

Maybe he’ll have the same chance, before he comes to her end. 

Andy raises her head, her eyes sharp as a bird of prey. “But you’re right, I’ll hear that out from her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can play "spot the translated French idiom" if you like. Writing for The Old Guard's characters is interesting, because you can draw interpretations about their default mental language. Writing Nicky, it feels like there's a lot of different languages bouncing around in his brain, that come out as needed. Booker seems to think mostly in French alone, so I treated it with translation this time around, to draw attention to it in different ways. My fondest thanks to my palemate, ave-ari, for providing me with some French idioms ^_^ 
> 
> I really like Booker's character voice.
> 
> I've been to New Orleans! It definitely strikes me as the kind of place Booker and Andy would like. 
> 
> The briefest of nods to "Nicky was most definitely on the wrong side of the crusades, woops". The idea that they'd hide/not reveal that side of their past to Booker is definitely interesting to me. Fodder for another fic, or maybe a tiny nod will happen in the next chapter (which Joe leads! yay!)
> 
> Thoughts on the chapter as always, very much welcome! <3 Their friendship is easily one of my favourites of the film.


	4. Yusuf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! 
> 
> Sorry this chapter took a little while. I got caught up in some life stuff, and another work of mine was hankering for an update. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

The roads in Iceland run like they’re in Russia, but the surface is like another planet. Yusuf remembers when the images of the surface of Mars filtered back down to earth, blinking wide-eyed and saying to Nicky  _ I’m glad we were here to see that _ . Andy, swallowing, her lips pinched white beside them. 

Yusuf believes that may have been in a hotel just north of Tripoli. A lot of the places run together. He tilts his head, studying the almost abstract forms of the landscape. It would be gorgeous to paint. If this was a place they could settle -- where they wouldn’t be ducking out every few months -- even the prospect of only one lifetime without that sets an ache in his bones. They haven’t had that for over a century. And when it was within their grasp, back in their younger days -- he never thought to cherish it. 

He shifts the jeep back down to a stop as the mist of the waterfall looms. They decided they’d walk from here, it being about a kilometer’s approach. 

“You sure you want to take the sniper approach? We’re not expecting trouble. You can -- just come with me, armed,” he says to Nicky gently. 

“Always ready for a reasonable amount of trouble,” Nicolo’s eyes are steely and glinting. 

“What was it that  _ Amriki’in  _ said -- good trouble, I liked that,” he leans over for a quick kiss to his lover’s lips. 

“Then make good trouble, my love,” Nicky replies, the kiss and the Italian sweet on his tongue. 

“All right, all right.”

He hops down to the dirt road on lithe feet, eyeing the craggy rocks that couch the waterfalls. He’s sure at the right angle, it would be very easy for a sniper to get high ground here. And then, from another -- it would be damn near impossible. 

Here’s hoping wherever their camp is falls under the second one. 

Yusuf feels light as he walks up -- both in his step and in the lack of weapons. This is a mission, yes -- for the boss, for Nicky, hell, for Nile too. So Andy decided from speaking to Booker that they’d give Quỳnh a chance, fine. Good, but not good enough. He needs to hear it from the woman herself. 

As for the past five hundred years or so, there’s a particular feeling in knowing Nicky’s gaze is tightly bound to him, his every step. Knowing that if another death is to be stolen from him, Nicky will snatch that away, if he can.

It’s comforting. But Yusuf is calm. He’s calm when he sees the two figures, the woman and the man, waiting by the second waterfall. The roar of the water rushes over him. It’s what they agreed. They stand, the three of them in the gentle wind and grass, the waterfall covering most of their conversation. 

“Sébastien,” he tilts his head, unsmiling. Booker grimaces. 

“Didn’t expect you to ask for me.” 

That sparks off the old memories like industrial steel, the memories of Booker’s betrayal ripping through Yusuf like the agony of having all his internal organs knit back together. He unclenches his jaw consciously before he speaks with careful words. 

“You know what Nicky said to Copley, when we were being led to that plane, the one that took us to the lab where they tortured us: We’re usually a better judge of character. And I thought,  _ Booker _ usually is. So now, if Andy says we’re taking a chance on -- “ here Yusuf gestures grandly, “Whatever this is, you better believe I’m getting a second opinion on whether that’s safe for her.”

Booker blinks like it stings, but he takes it in stride, “Stakes being as they are, that’s smart.”

Thinking of Andy. Yusuf still isn’t fond of how casual it seems. 

“It’s your character on the line too.”

“Yeah,” at that last word, Booker’s facade slips at last, “I was going to offer to leave. Before I heard you--”

“I know,” Yusuf says steadily, fixing him with a bracing stare, “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you expect from that?” Quỳnh interrupts, causing both men to shock slightly. That hits old memories too -- the Quỳnh that Yusuf remembers never hesitated to speak her mind. She and Andy used to butt heads about mission plans -- used to make their plans that much tighter, when Andy had someone to fight with. 

“How do you mean?” Yusuf asks. 

“What would you expect if Sébastien had left?” she fixes him with a steady gaze, the one he remembers going into battle beside. It’s almost painful to smile in return. The breeze rustles through the grasses in the silence. 

“Oh. Well. I know it would hurt him -- Andy said as much, and I knew that was true. I wouldn’t have that.”

“I hurt you two worse than that,” Booker mutters, and there’s almost an apology in it. Yusuf catches his eye, not sure if he’s ready to hear whatever his wayward brother has to say. He clears his throat.

“So. I said I wouldn’t go into your home yet, I meant that,” Yusuf begins. He can barely imagine it, yet -- in a landscape like this, would their home be like the small northern villages that he and Nicky drove past? Or with 

“I’d invite you, unarmed,” Quỳnh remarks.

“See, there’s the part I’m not quite ready for yet. But if this goes well with me, Nile will come after. She’ll go without weapons -- she has her own confidence. And I trust her eyes,” Yusuf trusts nearly everything about Nile’s judgement, when it comes down to it, and he’s had to bite his tongue on calling her  _ boss _ multiple times. 

“I’ve dreamed of her. I would see her come to no harm.”

“Will you tell me something, Quỳnh -- before I ask you any of the questions you expect?” Yusuf bites back the old nickname they had for her-- quince, after those turkish fruits she was so fond of. Andy used to bring them for her by the basket. 

“Ask. Of course,” she says, tilting her head.

“Why -- all of this? I mean, Andy expected you to be angry. I think we all did -- not just from the dreams. It would have made sense. Burn it all down. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad -- I wouldn’t like it and I don’t want to fight you. But we’d have understood.”

She laughs, almost unkind, “You do not think asking you to turn your back on a way of life some centuries old is itself destructive?”

“Touche. I missed your wit,” Yusuf grins into the sunlight that pokes through the grey above. 

“And I yours. But that was half an answer. There was a man I met. Who -- saved my life, in a sense of the word. You’ll be able to meet him, should you choose to enter our home,” she pauses, her eyes bottomless as the ocean from which she was raised, “His name is Gilles.”   


“A Frenchman, like our Sébastien?”

“Fisherman. He doesn’t have much of an affinity for countries, which I like about him. But he found me when I washed up on the shores of Canada, New Brunswick.”

Joe raises an eyebrow-- “That would have been early enough in the year that the cold water should have killed you.”

“He knows,” she says simply, “I was in no condition to hide it from him at the time. I was barely coherent. But he took care of me. Even knowing -- seeing that evidence. I only lunged at him once. He -- made me understand why I had nothing to fear from him. It amazed me, even then.”

He expected mortals in their camp -- from the way Quỳnh carried Oumar out, she had plans meant to last. And though that was safer than the alternative -- it would still be something new to get used to. A car passes by on the road that’s a few miles from the flatlands where they stand. There’s still a lot of isolation here. 

“Sounds like a special person,” Yusuf says carefully. It has been hundreds of years-- but he hopes she still holds Andy in a place close to her. 

“I could say he’s the reason for all of this -- oh, none of that confusion Yusuf. I love him but only as a man. As I would you.”

“Never had to ask, with you, Quince,” Yusuf feels a grin breaking on to his face, in spite of himself. She smiles back, full and lively, and it hits him that this is his dear friend -- the very same he knew for three hundred years. “Shit, did Andy say it yet -- did anyone? We’re all -- sorry we stopped looking. Even though you’re not angry.”

“Sébastien did. Many a time.”

Yusuf blinks, not expecting that. Andy hadn’t said much about her and Booker’s meeting -- same terseness as ever. But he got the sense that Booker had--gotten to do some thinking. Booker clears his throat, looking Yusuf in the eye. 

“Yeah, I mean -- good practice, right? I owe you and Nicky all of that -- more than that. Maybe Nile too. I never said it then. It was -- too much, feeling all that I did come down on you, on all of us. Losing Andy, too. Shit, there I go again. That isn’t an apology -- I’m sorry, Joe. I am so, so, sorry that I didn’t do -- anything else. I almost killed Andy, and you and Joe a fate worse than death. I can never -- say that enough --” 

He’s babbling, and Yusuf almost wants to laugh, wants to stop him, isn’t sure if that’s what he wants to hear at all. It might be everything he always wanted to hear, when it wasn’t too painful to think of him. 

“But it doesn’t matter, I mean -- I’m grateful that you wouldn’t have made me go. This -- working with her, that’s been the only thing that made my life matter this past year. I --can’t lose that.”

“I know,” Yusuf says quietly. His voice comes out hoarse. Beside him, Quỳnh makes a hum of assent, and Yusuf does laugh then, some nervous instinct bubbling up inside him. It can’t last forever, this pain-- this anger. As Nicky would say. Nothing does. 

"Wow. Did you do that, with him? If we weren't going to hear you out before, we definitely will now," Yusuf looks with a kind of incredulous joy from Quỳnh to Booker. "Alright. Alright come on Sébastien, let's get in here.”

Yusuf spreads his arms, because in spite of everything, there’s still been little in the family he doesn’t want to  _ try  _ to patch with a good hug. Booker always needed it more than the rest of them did, except maybe Andy some days. He laughs weakly, staggers slightly into the embrace. Yusuf can feel him shaking. 

"I'm still so mad at you I can't see straight some days. But. Hearing you say that -- seeing you like this. That'll go a long way. I'm glad you're doing better. And it's good to see you. I'm surprised, but it is."

"I'm surprised too I -- yeah.  _ Merde _ , it all seems so surreal,” now he’s crying. Yusuf holds him a little, weighing his own anger against Sébastien’s grief. Part of it felt good to. The penance was there, and yet -- it was promised. Now that was something Nicky would have said, too. He’s probably watching this now. When they break apart, Booker attempts a watery smile. Quỳnh is studying them both with a wary smile. 

“To your question, Yusuf -- no,  _ I _ did not do that. Sébastien did. Sometimes we surprise each other in terrible ways,” she says gravely, “And sometimes, we rise to meet each other.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Q,” Sébastien says weakly, still patting Yusuf on the shoulder.

“We all need each other. Andromache taught me that much. And Gilles reminded me,” she smiles then, “So for now, Yusuf. -- I will answer the question I know you have, which is where I have invited you and why.”

“Sorry, yes -- please,” he grins sheepishly, raising his eyes in the direction he expects Nicky is. 

“This is -- to be a home. And it was always built with us in mind. With Andromache, with you, with Nicky -- someplace for us to learn and grow, and not need to hide. Someplace where we can record what it is we’ve learned. And if possible, share it where it’s most needed. We all have ...spectacular talents, minds, compassion to bring to the world. Remember all those moments your drawings ended up in museums, all those innovations Andromache had to keep us safe and comfortable and hidden. Your way with plants -- I remember all those notes you kept before they burned in the safe house in Bonn. We should have had copies.”

“You want to do something like that here.”

“I want a place for us that feels like ‘safe’ is something we can reach for. Like we can have more than just each other. A village. And I want that for the world too, more than I want the bleak promise of us saving a few from a horrible fate. I want to teach them what to do with their lives. I want us to learn that,” her eyes are shining, passionate as Yusuf has ever seen her. He can feel his heart lifting -- the promise of a place for them. For his Nicky. For Andy to grow old. For Nile to watch over. 

He could see it. 

“If you’ll allow me to show you the plans --” she unrolls a lovingly drawn map, fresh with all the detail Yusuf remembers from her eye. He and Nicky tried to take up that practice when they lost her -- but he had the feeling then they’d not quite managed to reach her skill. He knows that.

Still, as he listens to her outline the irrigation, the current plans for raising livestock and the way their home is wired through solar electricity (a marvel Andy had always been more than a little suspicious of), there’s a lot to look forward to. He asks a few questions about security, how they communicate with the outside world, and makes a few mental notes to speak with Copley. The conversation turns to old memories, ones that Sébastien missed but seems eager to listen to. 

Hopefully they’ll get to make new memories soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love a good hug and some fluff. I am unreasonably fond of "Quỳnh can make good maps" as a headcanon and I am loving her and Joe's dynamic.
> 
> Thoughts, comments, squees always welcome <3


	5. Nile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we are given a tour of he gay Icelandic farming commune many of us wish for, and Nile has some reflection on the kind of fighter she wants to be. 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me, hope you like this chapter! Brief touching on the American military here.

Nile has called a  _ lot _ of places home. Whether they’ve been home at all is another question.

She fell in well with the guard’s fly-by-night movements for a reason. Yeah, Chicago was where she rested her head for six years until she enlisted -- but before that they did bounce around to a few places that she was too young to remember all that well. 

All the years ahead of her, won’t be too long till she’s forgotten them.

Still. This place will be hard to forget, even if they don’t stay.

Joe had said it was beautiful, but Nile wasn’t prepared for what it was like to walk underneath a waterfall, the spray brushing back against the other tourists. The grey and green stretches out in front of her like a medieval tapestry sewn by an abstract expressionist. She feels like she should see a goat wandering among the rocks. She could walk right to where the rendezvous with Quỳnh is but -- might as well linger. 

The bright sunlight glitters through the tumbling water, and she smiles. One thing she’s heard is that there aren’t as many sunny days here. That’ll be a change from the place they were holed up in Egypt. As she crosses back to the main trail, picking up the pace, she wonders absently about what the art is like in Iceland. 

See, she also knows more than a lot of the people she met back in Chicago about -- other places. Maybe it was cause she always knew she’d be following in her dad’s footsteps. Nicky would say it served her well , and that was its own destiny. He was always saying stuff like that. 

New family...and old. And newer still, maybe. 

Her feet hit the trail, coming up against the long grass. Pretty soon, she’ll cross over to where Nicky and Joe can’t cover her -- or shouldn’t be able to, if it’s really all that safe. She pulls her pack closer to her, wondering if they’ll search it. Nothing but some snacks, water, and a polaroid camera in there. They could take that away if they really wanted to, so long as she gets it back when she leaves.

The water that runs next to Nile has a musical trickle. It looks so clear and fresh. Almost like it would be good to drink. She studies it, sorely tempted. But just because the  _ E. coli _ can’t kill her, doesn’t mean it would be fun. 

She looks up a second before the sound of footsteps hits her ear. The drowning woman, in the flesh again, approaching her wearing a deep blue coat over practical dark pants.  _ Like the ocean _ , Nile thinks, and holds back a shudder.

Her eyes aren’t kind. Nile reminds herself how hard it was to trust Andy when they met. And Quỳnh has more reasons than most for life to have worked her over. 

“Nice to see you again, Nile,” Quỳnh’s voice is gentle, inviting, even. That helps. 

Nile tries for a bracing smile, “You too. Is Oumar -- all right? Is he with you?”

“He is,” she smiles then, and it’s halfway to kind. That gives her a little reassurance. 

They walk together in silence, somewhere between tense and companionable. Nile thinks about the nightmares, every one that she lived for centuries. Andy is right. The woman who came out the other side wouldn’t be the same one she knew. Not by a long shot. 

Nile casts a fleeting glance behind her at the vast, flat landscape. How many women might she be, before her time comes up like Andy’s? Well. That way madness lies, Booker chides her in her mind. 

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet when you come in. Did Yusuf mention him?”

“Yeah. He told me everything.”

“Everything he asked and I mentioned,” Quỳnh beckons to a path a little more off the trail, though it’s still marked by more than a few footprints, “There are ten of us who live here for the moment. I don’t expect we can support more than another five mortals, if you should choose to stay.” 

“Ten?” the question comes out alarmed. Nile fingers one of her braids carefully. It’s only been a year of the family’s dodging of photographs, their quiet existence on the fringe, trusting only each other. Funny fear for an ex-Marine. She used to trust her life to fifty others on a platoon. She pushes that lifetime away. 

“Yes -- you don’t have to meet them all today.”

“I think I have to,” Nile says firmly. She won’t feel safe without it. Quỳnh just nods. They’ve arrived at a large rock face, almost a small cliff. The road is visible from where they are, though only a few cars pass, departing from the campground. When Nile turns back, Quỳnh has pulled back some cover to reveal an underground passage. 

“You make this yourself?”

“I had help. Andromache would recognize the design, inspired by Derinkuyu.”

Nile takes the space in with her eyes, as the camouflaged curtain falls behind them and Quỳnh bolts a heavy door. It’s narrow, lit by dim LEDs strung along the top of the tunnel. Feels like a more modern version of Andy’s abandoned mine. She follows Quỳnh quietly, taking note of every turn to keep track of the cardinal direction. They’re moving up, that’s for sure. 

“The rock has a softness to it. Though we’ve only cut the one tunnel, we’ve thought about more. In case we have need for protection. But there are only so many hands, and eyes,” Quỳnh adds. The light is starting to shift up ahead, something like sunlight spilling over at the end of the tunnel. The two of them come up in a huge, flat space. On one side, they have the high ground, the waterfall beneath them. On the other, a slowly rolling hill expands beyond an understated fence which Nile senses has a lot more to it than meets the eye. She counts three greenhouses, and two of what might be houses, solar panels loaded up top. And further in the distance, what looks like might be a farm. 

“In these greenhouses, we are working on re-forestation projects. We have a contact who we coordinate the seedling research with. The seedlings will supplement the forest parts we clear to build materials,” Quỳnh gestures to the huge cylindrical greenhouses beside them, “To the local authorities, we are a forestry research team. Which is only partially a lie -- three of our company are:  Sigurður, Ingibjörg, Helga. They had a camp here before we came. ”

“They got family?” Nile wonders -- it could go either way with scientist types. Kind of similar to being in the military. 

“In a sense, they are family to each other. But their work is very important to them. When Gilles offered our help, they were more than happy to accommodate us, and let us make changes to make this -- a safer home.”

It has at least that going for it. The structure reminds Nile a little of the Marine camps she’d directed setup for. Regimented, but with important buildings clustered near the center. It even has a few places to watch from. 

“And they...know what we are? And that didn’t scare them?” Her own camp flashes back to her, Dizzy and Jay’s wide eyes.

“No -- that’s so surprising? Sebastien wondered that as well, though I considered it perhaps his personal baggage.”

“Seba-- Oh, Booker, yeah. Uh -- yeah, I had some friends, when I. Came back, the first time, you know,” Nile swallows hard when she says it. On some level, she can still feel its ghost every time, wrapping her fingers around her neck, “They didn’t take it that well. 

“We had a few people that knew. Did Andromache never mention?” Quỳnh is so particular about names. Might be for knowing them a long time. Though -- Joe did say Sebastien when he explained what happened to. Nile pulls her jacket a little closer as a breeze floats between them. 

“Those Russians we fly with might. I think they joke with Andy. I don’t know Russian all that well still,” she has half a mind to talk Andy out of travelling with them, with the poor safety on board. But they kept themselves alive. Andy flew in the cockpit, that time, and didn’t argue about it. 

“As long as you’re ready to meet someone who certainly does,” Quỳnh pauses in front of a building with new set stone and -- turf growing on the roof. Huh. Nile nods, and Quỳnh opens up the door wide.

“Ah! There’s the girl!” a balding older man seated at a table covered in woodchips gives a jovial wave. Nile tentatively waves back.

“This is Gilles. Gilles, this is Nile.”

“Well look at that, we make a rhyming pair. Pleasure to meet you, Nile,” he shakes the dust off his hand before extending it, “Quỳnh was telling me you’re representing her old family.”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he has a good grip and kind eyes. 

“You wait here a minute, eh? Einar was out getting some cream. I’ll put the kettle on,”he claps the dust off his hands and heads for the sink. 

“Einar? He one of the farmers?” Nile asks. 

“First one we got on board. You’re sharp. What is it you do? Quỳnh here said you used to be with the Marines.”

“Yeah. I sure used to be,” she settles on to the chair, thinking about the way that’s been weighing on her the past year, “Uh. Hope that's not a bad impression."

It feels like spitting on her father's memory to even say that. But since joining the guard, listening to Joe and Nicky discuss American imperialism at length, her relief that she'd left the marines with only one kill had turned into a churning guilt that she hadn’t thought harder about it in the first place. There coulda been more she was doing at home, instead of being another cog in that war machine. 

Not that it was much of a choice at the time, she told herself. But that feels like a platitude now. Andy said she should talk to Booker about it, once the hundred years are up. She'll be facing that down sooner now. 

“Try not to poke my nose too much into business which I don’t have much say over, you know? I mean, Quỳnh would have told you, I’m not American," he pushes the steaming mug of tea across the table to her, bustling back with one for him and Quỳnh.

"Sure, but you're right next door,” Nile points out quietly. She takes a sip after studying it carefully. It tastes earthen, herbal. 

"That don't count for much when it comes to your politics. Heck, hitting the streets only counts for so much for what we do at home!” 

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I guess I just thought--"

"You don't have to worry about our judgement here. We're trying to move forward, in whatever way we think is right. Today, for me? Making this little guy!" He produces a carved bird, about the size of two fists. It has the proportions of a morning dove but slightly -- larger. Nobler, somehow, like an eagle.

Nile smiles. It feels awkward on her face, "Looks great. And I guess-- I lead, sometimes. Andy and the others, they see me as taking after her. That's why I'm here. Going in first."

"Well see, there's a lot to admire in that. Looking after your family."

"Always," Nile said carefully, "But I don't -- want that to hurt other people."

"Good thing to reach for. Oh, there's our man, this is Einur!" 

Einur is a shorter man, probably about forty and white like he's one of the locals. Nile gives him a wave from the table and he smiles softly at her. 

" Halló, wish I could meet you properly. Gilles, can I get your help for a moment? One of fences needs mending before the  kýr find it."

"I'll have to duck out ladies, hopefully see you at the greenhouse later!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Einur rushes out, though Nile doesn't feel that bereft. Someplace with a lot to do seems like it'll be good for them. She takes another sip of her tea, looking over at her thousand year old companion. Quỳnh seems relaxed. The image of her choking on seawater rears up in Nile's mind again, so vivid she has to close her eyes a minute. 

When she opens them, Quỳnh is staring at her quietly. Nile opens her mouth, wondering if she should explain. Something else comes to her lips. about the size of his hand. 

“You know when Andy met me -- she shot me. Right through the head. Well, I guess before that she knocked me out, but. That didn’t sit right with me then.”

Quỳnh takes a sip of her tea, “Did you speak of it with her?”

“I did, yeah,” Nile tilts her head. She’s never been much for letting things lie. 

“Andromache used to be so cavalier about death, for us -- I suppose that’s changed now.”

“Not as much as we’d like it, but enough," Nile leads half the missions now, and they've got her off a lot of the bad habits. 

"I was the same. Worse even. Pain felt like nothing compared to loneliness. So I reveled in it. I believed it protected me," Quỳnh's calm almost makes Nile shiver. 

"Protected you from loneliness," Nile echoes. The concept sounds strange to her. But then, it's as distant as the concept of giving up fighting. She's had to do that all her life. 

"It mainly protected us from hoping for better. But I'm not afraid of that now," with her last words, her eyes again remind Nile inexorably of the ocean. 

"You afraid of anything, now?" Nile raises an eyebrow. 

"Of course. That was my mistake before. I thought I could take enough pain to fear nothing. Now I'm just trying to put my fear away." 

"What if I said -- look, I want to say we can put down our arms for good. But -- I dunno that stopping everything about what we do is a good idea. Sometimes it's about protecting people," Nile swallows the quick heartbeat, the fear that she's speaking against wisdom she really does believe in. But then, she believes in what her family does, too. What Andy does. 

"I've been trying to make us do it better. Get the others to kill less, only if it's needed. I've seen that what we do-- it does good."

Quỳnh nods once, taking a long sip of her tea. A strange bird-croak calls through the open window. Nile wonders if it's the same one that lies carved in a pile of wood chips between them, "Sebastian described Agent Copley's research to me once. Small butterfly effects. Evidently I want us to keep saving people in the ways we can."

"So, what you-- are gonna be okay with us, going out into war zones with machine guns? If I can get them not to kill," she finishes her tea with a searing gulp, wondering if she's asking for two months. Quỳnh's speech back in Mali is still burned in her brain. She's been thinking about it a lot. 

Quỳnh hums,"I'll ask you for a year-- of none of that. Perhaps we can accept one or two more mortals in need here, but for now we simply work, and dream together. Of things that we can do differently. Does that sound fair? Barely one hundredth of an exile. If after that, you still believe it to be the right way, I won't stop you. And you'll still have a place here, as long as you do your damndest not to spill blood."

Nile nods bracingly, "Deal. Guess that's even shorter for you, than it is for me."

"You would think. But no. The years reach a certain length that they are." 

Nile hesitates before asking, both of them standing up to continue their tour, "How long does that take?"

And there's her smile again, gentle and warm. Like sun on the water, "All depends on how you're spending them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and as always, comments are welcome and loved!


End file.
